On the Way
by Katieelessar
Summary: Somewhat AU. Faramir followed Boromir when he left to go to the council of Elrond, but by doing so he not only put himself into danger, but the Fellowship. Characters: Faramir and Boromir and some of the Fellowship. Chapter Eight is now up.
1. Chapter One: Remembering

Disclaimer: All characters, places, things, hobbits and everything in between belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien

**Chapter 1: Remembering**

A cold gust of air swept down the narrow mountain pass, humming an ominous chant of winter. The sound was high and the notes were held long, as if there was a chorus of dire women singing of the world's most vile entities. The wind bit into any visible flesh and chewed it raw, yet when there was no more meat to devour, the wind passed on seeking for other prey. The stars shone almost brighter that night, ridiculing the nine companions who were huddled in the dark, trying to find warmth in the small blaze. They were almost frozen; not wanting to move from their current spot for fear that any wind may tear through a crack in the clothing and gnaw on skin.

The fire moved to its own accordance, sending flashes of heat to not particular area at a time yet when it touched one of the cold mortals or immortal a sigh of relief passed through the individual's lips.

The smallest of the companions was having the most difficult time in finding warmth. He was in between his two older cousins, both of which were sheltering him from the wind as well as the fire's warmth. Nonetheless, cold overtook warmth and he shivered constantly until he thought he might pass out from the frigidness. A hand rose to touch his icy forehead, checking for fever. The hand touched slightly and was put back into its covering quickly; to make sure no warmth was lost.

'Fr-o-oo-do??' The young one asked. The older hobbit turned his hooded head to the right, blue eyes gazing for the familiar face of his younger cousin.

' Yes, Pippin.'

'I'm freezing.'

Frodo tried to smile, but only a few muscles in his cheeks would work, so numb was he and he ended up with a scowl.

'I know, Pip, I know. We just have to survive one more night and tomorrow we will be on our way to warmer air, okay?'

'Alright.' Came the reply and Frodo looked away from his cousin.

Pippin buried himself deeper into his blankets and sighed in content. Images of warm meat and a hard brandy came into his mind and he became less frozen. As he thought of a smooth, brown, warm brandy and it flowing gently into a large glass cup, the faster the icy mask wore away from his body and the sleepier he got.

A few moments passed by and Merry spoke,

'Hoy, everybody, listen!' He paused and the company listened to the world around them. The night was silent, deadly silent. 'The wind, it's gone.'

He tenderly threw off his first layer of blankets, and finding that it was not as chilly as before, stood up. Aragorn sat up as well, from his reclining position and threw off his only blanket.

'You are right, Merry. The wind has pulled back its assault and retreated back to its home.'

The others dug themselves out of their wool blankets, which were sodden with snowmelt, and stretched heartily. They had spent almost half the night among their blankets and now there was time for a much needed meal and talk.

Sam straight away brought out his pots and dried foods while Legolas and Gimli rebuilt the fire. Aragorn and Gandalf stood near the rim of the fire's border, in a deep conversation. Frodo could see Aragorn's face clearly, the black and orange splashes of the fire swept across his face that had a frowned brow and tired eyes. Gandalf was too far away for Frodo to see his face, but he realized that he was speaking rapidly from the many murmurs he heard from that direction. He would ask the two later what they were in such deep converse about. Right now, there was work to be done.

He walked over to Sam and without saying a work, took the wooden spoon away from him and began stirring the soup. Sam looked at him, ready to say 'That's all right, Mr. Frodo. You go and rest.'

Frodo put a finger to his lips and pointed over to where Pippin lay. Go wake him up dear Sam, he said.

'Yes, sir.'

'Sam.'

'Yes, Mr. Frodo?'

'No, 'sir', okay?'

Sam smiled slightly, 'Yes, Mr. Frodo.'

Frodo smiled back and turned his attention back to the stew.

Boromir came over to Frodo from his own bedding, being awakened by Legolas, as he had been asleep still when everybody was already up and about.

'That smells wonderful.' He said to himself and sat across from the fire, looking a Frodo. Frodo gave the stew one last stir and sat back.

'How is your hand, Boromir?'

Boromir looked at his hand, which had finally begun to heal. The damage had been severe, almost unfixable yet with Elrond's skills of mending the healing was on its way.

'Better, Frodo.' He paused and bent his fingers. There was still a sharp pain that went from his fingertips to his elbow but not as excruciating as it had been.

'It has been healing very nicely.'

Frodo looked at him with a grim almost curious glint in his eye. 'May I ask how you received such a hard blow?'

Boromir sighed. Must he recall such a frightening thing? It was one of the most disturbing moments in his life. His brother…Faramir…and he came so close to… Boromir sighed again and looked at his hand. Frodo noticed his reluctance and spoke softly.

'You need not to tell me, Boromir, if it pains you to do so. I am sorry I asked.'

'No, Frodo. Do not apologize. I think this tale needs to be told and whether I like it or not. I fear if I let this chance slip by me, another one will not come and these memories will haunt my dreams for many nights to come. I cannot tell you it in the full now, it seems that supper is ready, perhaps later would suit you and I?'

Frodo glanced at the steaming stew in the pot in front of him and agreed.

After an hour of food and quiet laughter, the Fellowship rolled out their bedding and one by one fell into a much-needed sleep. Aragorn was still awake, sharpening his knives in the shadows of camp while Boromir and Frodo sat by the dying fire. The hobbits, dwarf, wizard and elf had already fallen into sleep, some dreaming of ale and mushrooms while others of war, bloodshed, arrows or peril.

'You two should get some rest.' Aragorn called out softly from his seat. 'I'll take watch.'

Boromir shook his head. 'Frodo and I are going to stay awake for a while. You go to sleep, Aragorn, you need it the most.'

Aragorn looked hesitant, his mind recalling past events where if the Fellowship had not been there to wake him out of his reverie, Boromir would have taken the Ring from Frodo and fled.

Nevertheless, he laid down on his blankets and his breathing evened out within a few moments.

Boromir turned his attention away from Aragorn and back to Frodo.

'The time has come, and the full telling of this tale will be told. For both heart's and mind sakes…'


	2. Chapter Two: Voicing

Disclaimer: All characters, places, things, hobbits and everything in between belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien

**Chapter 2: Voicing**

Boromir twisted around with such speed his attacker did not have the time to even cry out. The sword came down in an arc, missing the man's shoulder by only a hair strand. His attacker jumped back as Boromir stood up and began to advance, sword in hand.

'Who are you?' Boromir asked, before Faramir had a chance to tell his brother that it was he.

'Boromir-'

'How do you know my name? Who are you? What business do you have here in such a place?'

Faramir began to reach into his pocket to pull out the emerald rock Boromir had given to him only a few days before…

'Remember today, little brother.' He said sadly, turned and rode away. A breeze blew through the city tossing the banners and flags of Gondor in an arbitrary pattern of flight. The gold flickered in the sunlight, illuminating brightly against the black background of the banner. Faramir looked up, eyes full of sorrow, staring at the gold crest of Gondor for a long while.

'Captain Faramir!' A lone voice cried out, echoing throughout the empty city walls.

Faramir turned around to see Arathil running towards him. The Ranger was breathing hard when we reached Faramir, as if he had run to Minas Tirith and back again, which was, of course, no short distance.

'What is it, soldier?'

The man began to breath easier and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. The grime from his shirt smeared, taking the shape of the pattern of a long river, snaking its way from his brow to his dark hair. The Ranger took no notice and starting searching his pockets.

'I saw Captain Boromir coming out of the city, riding on his horse with bags and food on the saddles. I bowed my head and he saw me, with the other Rangers, celebrating and drinking, of which I knew he should have been doing but was not, and he beckoned me to come over to him.' The man paused and took something out of his pocket. It was a stone, of a rather small stature. It was round; almost a perfect sphere except for one dent within the surface where it looked that something had been smashed against it. A sword, an axe, perhaps another stone? Faramir was not too know but he did not dwell on the thought.

He took the stone out of Arathil's hand and gazed at it. To deeper inspection he saw it was not a stone at all, it was a gem, a very rare gem, only found in the deep parts of the White Mountains where caves ran their courses and men still dug for the deep riches within them. It was an Emerald, dark green with white splashed upon the surface. But what intrigued Faramir the most was the fingernail thin line of black that ran around the stone. It looked almost like a small river, running against the cold green.

'He said to me, 'Give this to my brother and tell him to keep it close to his heart.' He handed me this stone and rode off faster than I could say a farewell to him.' He paused and looked at the stone. 'May I ask, sir, what was Captain Boromir so needed for?'

Faramir looked up, his eyes grim.

'I am sorry, sir, I was out of place to ask—.'

'No, Arathil, it is all right. I was only thinking of why my brother was sent upon this errand. He was sent to Rivendell for a council. The Steward will tell me no more and Captain Boromir left too quickly for me to query.' He paused, the pain of his brother leaving washed over him again and he closed his eyes.

Their parting had been short but sorrowful and now he was left alone, the one of the two Captains left to defend Gondor from the Shadow that grew. There was nothing to do but to wait and hear word from Boromir of how the council went and what was planned. But that would take weeks! Faramir thought sadly. Maybe even months.

And how many months would it take for Osgiliath or even Minas Tirith to fall. Not even one. It would take perhaps a battle of two days for the Enemy to control all of the lands West of Rohan. The thought of sending a messenger had more than once crossed his mind, but he did not have the authority needed to send such a message of helplessness.

Nor could he light the beacons of Gondor. His father would not allow it.

There was the chance of overcoming Boromir before he reached Imladris and asking him to come back. Telling him which was more important? Defending his country or going to a council to discuss matters that would take many weeks to come to an agreement, maybe longer. And how many men would die in those undecided weeks? 400? 500? And how much more of Osgiliath would be overtaken?

Faramir knew he was a strong Captain and leader but his older, wiser brother was a better strategist and more capable at making decisions within a moments time. Now, at what will become Man's darkest hour, he, they, needed a leader whose skills could triumph over all the evil that festered in this world. That leader, that man, was Boromir.

Author's Note: Is a Captain higher or lower in rank than a Lieutenant? What do you think? Read and Review! As always, insults and criticism will be used to compliment the Dark Lord.


	3. Chapter Three: Valiant Captain

Disclaimer: All characters, places, things, hobbits and everything in between belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien

**Chapter 3: Valiant Captain**

_He brought the great sword down with a heavy thrust, all of his body weight behind it and rammed the great point deep into the gut of the beast. The animal stopped, feeling cold metal passing through skin, flesh, bone and finally the senses began to convey their hurts and the beast howled with pain. The lone man, clad in bronze and dark blue, pulled the sword out of the large beast and backed away before turning around to his other foes. It was then he forgot the most important rule of combat: never let your guard down, no matter how sure you are that your foe is dead. With one step forward, he fell back five as a large paw ripped through his cloak and skin. He stifled a cry of fear and it came out to be a groan. The sword flew out of his hand as his body hit the ground. Darkness swarm in his vision, the air being knocked out of him, he faded slowly, black seeping into his mind, but then he heard a cry, more terrible and horrible than any he had heard. His hairs on the back of his neck stiffened and his mind was brought back to--_

'Do I see idle play whilst there is work to be done, oh _valiant_ Captain.'

His focus on his book had been so intent that Faramir did not even hear his Father coming into his study.

Had he known that his father had been coming he could have, at the most, pulled out a map of Osgiliath and pretended to study it, the paths of the enemy and so on, and yet his father would ask the same question he just had if he had seen his son doing that, so was there a point? Same deed, same result.

'Good Evening, father.' Faramir stood and bowed his head, but put it back up when he heard his father scoff.

'A good evening is it, my son. I'm afraid not. I heard news that were you not at your post in Osgiliath like you were ordered to do so, was I given false information?'

Faramir could feel his father's eyes boring into him, looking for some way to ridicule him. He tried to ignore them and spoke,

'No, father, you were not mislead. A band of Itilien Rangers have taken over command for me for a short while, my lord. I came here to—'

'To hide away from death and battle because my son is not here to help you. Do not hide the truth from me, Captain Faramir, for I know you more than you may know yourself. I can see that his parting has brought you deep sorrow and even deeper fear. Hide it away! Do not wallow away in self pity, Faramir.' He paused, he could see his words hitting his son harder than they were intended to. Good, he thought. 'I want you to find any able men or boys and ride out to Osgiliath tomorrow before sunset. I will not let a man's pain bring down the whole of Gondor. That is understood?'

Without waiting for an answer the Steward walked out of the room, robes billowing behind him.

Faramir turned and walked to the small window of his study. His face was red with hidden rage and his eyes shining. His father knew where to hurt him. He saw the opening in their battles and took the stab that was always fatal, always made him, the Captain of Gondor, want to run away from any other battles to come.

He had come to Minas Tirith earlier that day, when dusk was upon them, to gather supplies and equipment needed for his journey west. He had decided the only way to save Osgiliath, Gondor and every man, woman and child from a horrible, burning death, was to go west, find his brother and bring him home. The consequences would be severe for Faramir, exile perhaps, but rashly thinking, he thought it would be worth it. Thus, here he was, waiting for all the lights of the city to go out so he could make his escape.

He sat down again heavily on his chair and picked up his book. After a few moments of staring at the pages and not consuming the tale, he got up and went to his bedroom, which adjoined to the study.

His room was the same, bare and lifeless. He hardly spent any more nights in his room. Duty had been calling him almost everyday. Not that he complained, fighting for his city was a great and valiant honor and being the son of the Steward, it was requisite to fight. Yet…it could get tiring.

He walked over to his bed and lay upon it, soaking in the comfort of the bedding. How long ago was it that he laid here, staring at the ceiling? Four weeks? Five weeks? Too many to count. He had spent too many nights sleeping on cold stone or inside abandoned buildings or even planning night raids or fighting a band of orcs. He closed his eyes and sighed. He was so weary, so, so weary and still there was work to be done.

After, what felt like a few moments, he opened his eyes and blinked. He could see nothing save the thin shaft of light coming from the setting moon. How long had he slept? All night it seemed. No, not all night. The moon set early during this time of year. It must be nearing the mid hour of night. He was still clad in his armor and weapons so he got up slowly, rubbing any aches and pains. He still felt weary but the rest helped greatly.

He light the candles around his room until he could see clearly. A tray of food and goblet of wine had been laid out for him at his desk and a cream colored tunic and brown leggings had been laid out as well. He took off his armor, piece by piece until he got down to his dirt soaked tunic and ragged pants. He stank, he thought and grinned at himself. Well there was no time for a bath or even a wash. He had to be out of the city and at least five leagues away from the city before dawn.

The chilled wind rushed past his face as he ride swiftly out of the city. The only people to see him were the guards out for watch but, thinking the Captain was heading back to Osgiliath, let him pass unheeded. Only the gate watchers asked questions.

'Off to Osgiliath, sir?' One of the guards said and moved from his watch to open the gate.

'No, not tonight.'

'Ithlien, sir?'

'Not this evening. I was ordered to leave on a journey of a different sort.'

The guard gave him a puzzled glance but did not ask what his Captain meant. He shook his armored head slightly and ordered for the gate to be open. A group of men came and pulled the large gate open for Faramir.

'Thank you, gentlemen. Sleep well tonight. Farewell.' Faramir said softly and rode pass the men quickly.

Turning left, he embarked on his journey.

After traveling for many hours under the pale moon light, that had now set, he slowed his horse to a trot. The great beast snorted and panted and Faramir finally breathed a sigh of relief. He must be at least ten leagues away from Minas Tirith, more than he had hoped for. If his brother left at least a half a day ahead of him, then it would take at least another two or three days to overcome him, that was if he did not stop during the nights-which was unlikely considering it was a long ride to Imladris. That also meant he was could allow himself a few hours of rest during the nights, but not so much that he should lag behind. It was likely his brother was going to head west until he reached the Gap of Rohan before turning north.

The country around him was green and sparse, only a few boulders and clumps of bushes rested in this country. He still had many leagues to go before reaching the flat plains of the Gap of Rohan but here, the country the very similar. He turned around and saw that he could no longer see the clear glaze of the Anduin and for a moment he thought of going back to defend his people, but his mind being set, he turned back around and rode west.

Author's Note: Sorry that this chapter wasn't as long as I wanted it to be. I got the horrid plague. Writers Block!!! Oh no! Thank you to all who answered my question. It was asked mostly out of curiosity. Chapter 4 will be delayed until I can find the right remedy. Perhaps watching The Return of the King would help. Hmmm…well I hope I get well soon. As always Review!


	4. Chapter Four: Chasing and Found

Disclaimer: All characters, places, things, hobbits and everything in between belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien

**Chapter 4: Chasing and Found**

Faramir woke suddenly to the cry of a bird off in the sky. He blinked and the world around him blurred into a mist of greens and blues. He shut his eyes for a moment to get his bearings. In the darkness, he could hear the stomp of his horse's feet trotting on the grassy plain. Where was he? His mind was full of fallacy and confusion. He finally peeled back his heavy eyes lids to the sight of his horse's neck. The horse's thick mane rubbed against his cheek, making a painful rash. He would need a good brush and wash to clean this mane.

'Although, my hair must look the same.' He thought and sat up. He immediately regretted it though. The muscles on his back screamed with pain from leaning forward all night. Well, perhaps not all night. Nevertheless, a few hours on the back of a horse, asleep for that matter, would make anybody's back sore. He grunted slightly and bent his back and shoulders backwards to try to untie the knot. Easing back to his sitting posture, he looked around to see where he was, wondering why he was not dead yet. Surely, his horse would have wanted to dump him in some river near by to drown him. That would surely ease both of their pains in their backs. He grinned slightly at his thoughts, but only to groan again at his aching back.

'Well there's no use lamenting over it.' He thought bitterly.

The country around him had changed little from what he had ridden through the night before. The grass was taller and lofty and more trees dotted the area. Some of the branches reached so far from their roots; Faramir wondered if even a bird landed on one, it would break off. They seemed so thin and brittle. Perfect for firewood. Rain fell in these areas during the summer months, but it was seldom. The branches must be dry enough to make a fire, even a small blaze. Later tonight, he would see how valuable these trees could be.

The sun had barely risen from its home, making Faramir sigh in relief. At least he had not slept into the day. That was his greatest fear at this time. To be caught, unguarded, unwary which were the only defenses in these dark times. Turning his back on the sun, he rode onward.

When the sun was resting mid way in the sky, Faramir decided to finally rest. His back had been aching all day and he was famished. He was used to the feeling of gnawing hunger in his stomach, he had had it many nights before, when dodging arrows and fighting fiends had been more urgent. Yet, he usually found some time to eat a piece of stale bread or drink from his flask before moving on with his orders.

When he was but twenty summers old, only a year in the military, one of his prerequisites to move onto an upper, more superior stratum had been to live in Emyn Arnel for a fortnight without any food nor water. He, along with a few other training soldiers had had their camp made by a small stream, with mosses and berry bushes grown around it. He remembered his brother, Boromir had been there to make sure none of the men ate anything and only had their serving of water for the day. The first three nights had been unbearable for Faramir. He was not used to the aching feeling of hunger within his stomach. Ever and anon, his abdomen would complain, always instigating mirth in the camp.

Yet, after a week of this treatment, many of the men stopped their amusement and began to moan themselves. They began to beg him to ask Boromir to let them eat a few berries, and he would answer no, saying 'he is my Captain as well.' Soon a 'few berries' became a 'couple' and finally 'only one.' By then, Boromir knew of their pleads and from there on, took his meals outside of his tent, by the fire to torment the starving men.

Faramir smiled at the memory. He recalled that one of the men lost control and one night stole a handful of the berries. A detail Boromir had kept from them was that these berries were not for eating in any way and the man was punished more severely than what Boromir could have done to him. The captain had smiled with mirth when the man came back, wiping a sleeve across his mouth, and merely said, 'Complications?' The men had laughed and learned not to touch the vile fruit ever. Once back home, he ignored his brother's warnings and ate well beyond his hearts content. He had his own punishment for that, similar to the man's, and spent the night moaning with pain.

Faramir climbed off his horses back and tied him to one of the trees in the cluster where he had chosen to stop. He pulled out one of his bowls from his pack and filled it up with water before setting it down for his horse to drink out of. He went back to his pack and took out a small bag rations for himself. Settling down on the grassy floor, he ate his fill and drank out of his flask, savoring every drop. Many springs and rivers ran through this wild country, but when he would come across one, he did not know. For now, he would have to spare the drops and wish for the sound of water.

He raked his hands through his dirtied hair and looked up at the blue sky. For a moment, he began to question himself, but being the captain he was, trained at making a decision and committing to it, he brushed aside his fears and doubts and closed his eyes for a moment. Breathing deeply, he eased his tired back into the nook of the tree he was resting against and fell into a dreamless sleep.

When he awoke many hours later, he raged at himself for falling asleep again but stopped when he heard the sound of trotting horse feet across the ground. Moving to untie his horse and storing away his food, he jumped on the surprised animal's back and trotted quickly off the vague path he had been riding on before he stopped. Pulling the reins, he stopped and turned around to the sound of very near horse hooves. Waiting in the coming darkness, hidden behind the foliage, he looked through a gap in the branches and saw a large blur race closer. He blinked and to his surprise saw the horseman slow and stop. He had light brown hair and broad shoulders. His armor bore the symbol of the White Tree and his cape was drenched in the dark red of his country. But what made Faramir realize this was his brother he had been so urgently searching for, was the large horn he bore at his side. White, with gold tracings so thin and plain one would have to look from a closer distance to see the details marked upon it. In front of him stood Boromir son of Denethor, the Valiant Captain of Gondor.

Author's Note: I know this is going kind of slow but like I said, I have the other chapters already written and my updates will be more frequent as well to the story picking up its pace. I have some good (but probably predictable) surprises coming up in a few chapters so please READ AND REVIEW!

Namarie


	5. Chapter Five: Walking Forward

Disclaimer: All characters, places, things, hobbits and everything in between belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien

**Chapter 5: Walking Forward **

Faramir released the long breath that he had not known he had been holding. His holding on the reigns, slackened and he closed his drying eyes from holding them open for far too long. For a moment, he thought of yelling out to Boromir, telling him of his presence, but that would have been folly for Boromir was quick with a bow and without forewarning, he may well be shot. Moreover Faramir had reasons to be hesitant in impending his brother, if not to be killed by a stray arrow but to be sent back home without him saying his full outlook regarding his brother's departure and all of his long hours of riding would be for the nothing and he would be sent back to an angry Steward and people and called a traitor. That was something he could not let happen.

For the moment, though, he would remain silent and watch his brother's actions carefully. If he would ride longer on this day, then he would follow, but he would stop and make camp, then he would stop as well and wait for the moment before sleep, when his brother's mind was not bent on killing and approach him.

Much to his dismay, Boromir dropped from his horse and began to walk around the area, checking for footsteps or boot marks. Faramir groaned inwardly at his own folly and tried to move his horse backwards, as slowly as he could without making a leaf rustle. He watched as Boromir's brow knotted with confusion as he moved to see what these horse marks and boot marks may tell him. He walked the circle of gaze and began to circle again, yet to his own gaffe he saw he was tracking his own foot marks the second time and laughed quietly at himself. Faramir hid his own mirth and stopped his horse from advancing anymore for Boromir forgot the business at hand and thinking it was safe enough to break for camp, tied his horse to one of the large trees the shadowed him and began to search through his sacks for something to eat.

Whilst he was searching, Faramir, very quietly and swiftly, jumped off his horse and using the silent footsteps of a trained Ranger, tied his own horse to a thin tree and crouched down, waiting for the night to come. Suddenly a large flock of crows flew through the sky over them, crying and howling. Boromir's horse had not known such creatures yet, for he was new to the Steward's stables and had only been Boromir's horse for yet three weeks. Never had he ventured so far as Osgiliath and not seeing but men and orcs, was frightened by such a new sight. He neighed and shuffled, causing Boromir to pull his hand out of the pack he had it in.

'Easy Ethel. Easy. What do you hear?' Boromir was started by his horse's abrupt movements and moved to comfort him.

Faramir's horse had not move his head the smallest amount.

Many hours later, when the sun had faded and moon had risen only a few paces from the rim of the world, Faramir was awoken from his small doze to the loud crunch of his brother's feet walking away from camp. He blinked blearily and waited for his eyes to focus on the world, light only by the small glaze. By the time he would make out the outlines of the trees and shadows of the bushes, Boromir had returned and was whipping his mouth. He set down his full flask, and having already eaten his small ration of food, settled down to sharpen his sword and wait for sleep to fall upon him. Ethel slept already, a few paces away and Faramir's own, Rethron, was sleeping as well. Faramir decided it was time for him to speak to his brother. He rose slowly, making sure that his clothes did not make sound or his sword and knives rattle. He advanced steadily, making sure his feet did not make any alarming noises nor cries. Boromir continued to sharpen his sword, back to Faramir.

Suddenly, he ceased his movement and quickly kicked dirt on the fire to put the flame out. At the time, Faramir did not know why his brother had done this so swiftly but he learned later that to remain alert, his brother would try to move his muscles to remain awake. It was such a very queer and unusual thing that he had heard and when he told his brother so, Boromir smiled and said nothing more on the subject. Yet, now, at the moment Faramir being illusive to the future as any other kept his own feet moving and found his way to the edge of the glaze and stepped out of the shadows of the trees. He did not know what to say, for he was in such an awkward position. For to say of his coming would start his brother and to tap his brother's back would result in his own hand being cut off. Mayhap, though, if he did speak, Boromir would not rush to conclusions so quickly and let him hear his brother's voice and know it was he, welcome him in and all would turn out well for both of them this night. Or---

Boromir twisted around with such speed his attacker did not have the time to even cry out. The sword came down in an arc, missing the man's shoulder by only a hair strand. His attacker jumped back as Boromir stood up and began to advance, sword in hand.

'Who are you?' Boromir asked, before Faramir had a chance to tell his brother that it was he.

'Boromir-'

'How do you know my name? Who are you? What business do you have here in such a place?'

Faramir began to reach into his pocket to pull out the emerald rock Boromir had given to him only a few days before but Boromir was, thinking that something was amiss, stood and grabbed Faramir's wrist.

'Not this time. I will not be tricked into believing that you have some gesture or idol of peace insides those rags that you wear. Tell me of your business. Speak.'

'Boromir, let me go. It is me.' For a moment, the grip on his wrist relaxed but only to be tightened again, when Boromir spoke.

'I do not know such a nameless being. And your business seems only to attack those who are alone and appear to be unwary so you may steal their treasures that they may carry with them. The greed of man! What is this now? You try to shake my own hand away from your own. Do you believe I am going to hurt you—

'No, I do not, for Boromir—'

'—because that would be folly of you.'

'Boromir it is me—'

'You are beginning to anger me, my dear fiend. Come, show yourself.'

Without warning Boromir's horse awoke and neighed loudly. Boromir, believing it was something of this man's treachery pushed Faramir to the ground.

'Who are you? Speak now, what have you done to my horse!'

'Boromir, stop, stop. You are hurting me—'

Boromir, acting rashly on his own part put his hands around Faramir's throat and began to choke him. The edges of the world began to fade as air left his throat. This was so unlike his brother. To not let him speak. Was he too skeptical and anxious or was this truly the way he had become through these past years of too many wars with the men of the south. For what ever reason, Faramir did not know but he began to convulse as he could not breath. He began to claw at his brother's tight grip. He could dimly hear his brother's voice. His mind screamed for air, he body twitched and all the while, his brother did not come to his rescue.

Author's Note: This was one of the hardest chapters I have ever written. I don't know why but I didn't really like the idea of why Faramir would have waited to speak to his brother and it was hard to come up with somewhat legitimate reasons for his actions. If you didn't like this chapter, don't leave me yet! I promise you, the next one will be good. It was the whole reason why I started this story in the first place, just getting there was the difficult part. Please review because it is always so helpful and may the light of the Valar shine on you!

Earnestly,

K. Elessar


	6. Chapter Six: Bearing Down

Disclaimer: All characters, places, things, hobbits and everything in between belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien

**Chapter 6: Bearing Down **

Boromir held Faramir down with his hand on his throat. Faramir began to choke, trying to speak.

'Boromir. Boromir, it's me. It's Faramir. Your brother. Stop!' But he could only gag. His mouth began to go dry and eyes water. His heart was pounding in his ear was the only thing, besides his own thoughts of helplessness and despair, he could hear. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to look into his brother's eyes, as he knew, Boromir would kill him. And when he peeled them open again, tears shinning atop of the green-brown ovals of seeing and feeling, he saw, that Boromir had his sword readied to stab through his heart.

'This will teach you, you ruffian, to never come between a man and his quest. I will not kill you myself but I will not help you find your way back home.'

He raised his sword and time slowed for Faramir. He grabbed his brother's hand and wrist, still groping his neck and tried to wrench it away. He was able to push it away for a second, but Boromir had his concentration bent on one place and grasp Faramir's bruising neck all the more harder. Faramir grabbed the wrist again, fighting for air and was able to twist it back, yet much to his horror, he realized that he had intuitively pulled the wrist back harder than he meant and the bones cracked and bent. Muscles tore inside the flesh and a dark red and blue swam in the wrist already.

Boromir cried out in pain and loosened his grip on the sword, trying to clasp his awry hand, yet his eyes flamed with vengeance and turned his attention back to Faramir who had rolled onto his stomach, coughing and choking, trying to find his voice. Faramir began to stand back up when suddenly a large weight hit him from behind. Boromir's breath was hot on his neck and he could hear his brother saying foul names in many languages. Faramir coughed again and was able to speak, hoarsely.

'Boromir, stop, stop! It is I! It is your—'

However, Boromir had already gotten onto his knees, raised his sword, keeping his other hand loosely at his side, and brought the blade down, with as much force as he could muster into Faramir's right shoulder. The icy blade was the first thing Faramir felt but then the blade went through nerves, flesh and came out into the grassy plain. Faramir cried out in pain, screaming at his brother, his hoarse voice forgotten for his pain over rid all.

'It's Faramir! Boromir it is I! I am Faramir!' And he cried out again when Boromir pulled the sword out of the flesh.

Boromir had been aiming again to finish off this ruffian, his own hand throbbing with pain. Broken no doubt he had thought the moment the ruffian had snapped it. But this was no ruffian…

No, no! He thought, agony shrouding his mind. No. Faramir was in Minas Tirith with his father, waiting for his return. Faramir would never follow him against his father's wishes, for the consequences would be to great to bear. No matter what his Father thought, he was the Steward and being the Steward he had the power to arrest Faramir on treason or abandoning his troops in the times when they needed him the most. Yet Faramir had even told him, weeks before, when Faramir had done everything within his power and order to restore Osgiliath and keep the orcs at bay, that he did not care what Father thought of him any longer. For no matter how large of a deed he could do, his Father would not see his younger son for what he was. And here was Faramir, almost dying by his own brother's hand, running from their father.

'Faramir? My brother?' Tears stung his eyes and he let his sword drop from his hands in surprise.

Faramir closed his eyes for a moment in relief, but soon the currents of sorrow washed that relief away.

'Yes, brother.'

Boromir paused for a moment and fell heavily onto the ground from his haunches. He clasped his burning hand and bowed his head, anger and disbelief clouding his mind. Shock ran through him and a moment of dead silence passed through camp. Faramir was breathing heavily, trying to find the strength to move onto his back, but his wound hindered him and he moaned slightly. Boromir brought himself out of his own thoughts of pain and blinding tears and stood up over Faramir, squatting down to be able to speak.

'Do not move, you'll only make it worse. Let me help you.' Boromir placed his broken hand in his lap and with the other searced around Faramir's shoulder until he found the bleeding wound. He asked quietly for permission to cut the tunic to see the gash and, eyes widening in fear, he looked upon the sword's awfully deep incision. In the dim moonlight, he saw the skin was torn back, almost like a sheet of metal, torn by an axe, with edges that were rough and jagged. Blood flew freely from the opening, like a river out of a spring. Boromir ripped a strip of his cloak off and pressed the material to the lesion.

Faramir winced from the pressure but, after a few long moments of the cloth being pressed against the pierced skin, the pain dulled slightly and the bleeding began to slow. Boromir did not speak, his face was emotionless as he helped Faramir stand up and walk over to the cooling fire. He set his brother down on his rolled out bedding and tried to throw some longs on the hot coals of the fire, but with his aching wrist, he could not and groaned silently. He walked over to where Ethel was standing quietly and rummaged through the bags.

'Would you like me to do anything, Boromir?' Faramir asked quietly. His eyes hoping to catch his brother's but Boromir did not look up and only shook his head.

Boromir fumbled with his pack until he found bandages and a flask of some herb medicine. He took a sniff of it and pushed it away with disgust. Many times in their childhood and after they had this herb put on their wounds and the wound usually hurt more after it was placed on it. It burned and throbbed yet it helped the healing all the more and he carried it (along with the bandages), awkwardly back to where Faramir lay.

Faramir followed Boromir's movements through half closed eyes. The weakness from the loss of blood was beginning to set in and his mind began to close down. The wound was still bleeding, not as heavily but Faramir could still feel the blood running down his shoulder. He tried to reach across his body with his left arm to apply pressure to the injury but his arm felt to heavy to lift. He looked down on his hand and through the dirt and blood; he saw it was deadly pale.

He squatted down, to the right of Faramir and when he looked he could only see his brother's knees and his good hand. He could tell, however, that he was tense; his movements were stiff and full of brooding. Faramir knew that the fact that he had almost run his own sword thorough his brother's heart haunted him.

'Boromir…' He said quietly and trailed off. Boromir was holding his brother's shoulder up to wrap the bandage around it, the medicine already soaking in the wound, and stopped at his brother's voice.

'I am almost finish, Faramir. Try to sleep while you can.' He said softly.

'No, Boromir, I am neither complaining nor moaning. The wound does not trouble me. What troubles me is you. I can see through your heart brother. What ails you?'

Boromir sighed and did not answer. It was not easy for him to keep his emotions hidden from his brother, as they were both trained in the art of seeing into another man's heart and motives. He could not brush off his brother's question and so he kept his answer reserved for latter talk. Right now, he had to clean the paining wound and bandage it.

When he had finished, his work quick yet adept, he gave himself and Faramir some water and reclined next to his dozing brother. Faramir fought for wakefulness for he knew his question would be unanswered unless he persisted. Boromir was wrapping his own wound tightly in some of the bandages and a tight fabric, not as cleanly as with Faramir's wound but good enough for the time when Faramir spoke for he could see it was not the broken bones that were paining his brother.

'Boromir, do not begrudge yourself for your actions. We have both been trained to be vigilant during the times of danger. You were acting on duty. Boromir, I truly am okay. That wound is a mere scratch compared to many others.'

'Even so,' Boromir answered, his eyes locking with his for the first time that night. 'Were I to query before acting, I would have known it to be you.'

'Yet you did not and I am okay.'

'Faramir, I could have killed you!' His blunt and distressing words echoed throughout the camp and Faramir was taken aback. He did not realize his brother felt so horribly, for what he could have done. He sat up, his shoulder crying out in pain, and put his arm around his shoulder. Boromir laid his head in his hands, ignoring the pain that shot through his wrist, trying to stop the lump of fear and anguish from coming out in a sob. 'And I what troubles me the most is that I did not give you a chance to explain you doings. What kind of captain am I? To kill out of misgiving thought? Not even a chance to prove yourself or your loyalty. Look at what I have become.'

Faramir paused for a moment, absorbing his brother's words. He found what he was looking for.

'Not so many days ago, you told me something before we rode off into battle at Osgiliath. Do you remember what you told me?' Faramir asked quietly, Boromir nodded slightly, head still bowed.

The wind blew from the north and the ominous trees around them swayed in a dance. The fire flickered, sending flashes of heat to no particular area at a time but against the cold wind, it gave a good feeling of warmth and safety. Faramir took his arm from around Boromir and wrapped a blanket around himself and his brother before continuing.

'You had said that during these times, we must forget who we are and who we were, for to live the life of a soldier we must put on a mask of the merciless and slay those who would do ill against the good. During that time, Boromir, I did not understand your words for they seemed harsh and unfair yet I looked back and saw, that is what I had to do to keep our men and our city safe. Boromir…'

He squeezed his brother's shoulders tighter and continued with a last thought, almost absent mindedly, '…you must listen to your mind and not your heart.'

Boromir sat still for a second, his breathing was the only thing heard, then he chuckled quietly. He indeed had told his brother, yet during the time he had tried to give his brother hope or an excuse for killing at the least and did not discern his own words. But now he saw and his mood lightened.

'Oh my dear brother! You sound like the old man who once visited Father and said to us we were so rude and ill trained that he was surprised that we did not fall on our own swords.'

Faramir laughed as well, not understanding the connection between his words and the crazed man who had come so many years ago, but he did not ask for his brother's humor mattered the most to him. He laughed again, recalling some of those fond memories. 'Oh yes, I remember such a man. Do you remember when we placed spiders in his soup that evening and he thought it was some sort of…'

'…vegetable from his homeland and Father looked at it for one second before turning to us.'

'We were in so much trouble! I recall that you had to help in the Library for a month, sorting books and scrolls.'

'How could I forget!' Boromir groaned, remembering the long hours he had spent in the old building, smelling of sour milk and old herbs. He did not realize how much of a punishment and a pleasure it was to Faramir to go there everyday on his own bidding. He grinned.

'And you had to take my position at the training camp.'

Faramir's smiled faded for he did not like to remember his times out in the battle field doing drills with the men whom would push him around and mock him 'little brother' even though Faramir had the power to send them away to the Steward yet he did not, and had only thought that some men were too cruel to belong in Minas Tirith and maybe after he was a more able and capable soldier they would finally respect him.

Yet the month went by and Boromir now able to recite the whole history of Middle Earth and Faramir able to name every stance and block in military history switched back to their normal routines.

Faramir smiled again and laughed. 'Those were good times, weren't they?'

'Aye, Faramir.' Boromir said quietly and looked at Faramir who met his eyes. They looked away and sat next to one another for a moment of comfortable silence.

Boromir was, however not going to let his brother slip away into sleep tonight without knowing why he was here. He separated himself a little from Faramir's arm and wrapped the blanket more securely around Faramir.

'What are you doing here, Faramir?' He queried softly.

Faramir sighed heavily and pulled the remaining threads of the blanket into his arms. Boromir helped Faramir lay back into the mat, careful as to not irriate the wound and reclined next to him.

'I needed to come.' Faramir answered.

'Why?'

Faramir was silent.

'Because,' Boromir continued. 'It was foolish of you. The Steward will not allow such an action to go unnoticed. Did you think about this?'

'Of course, I did. It pained me to leave. Leave my men, my city my home but Boromir; I came to see if you would come help me.'

Boromir shook his head sadly before Faramir had finished talking.

'I cannot, you know I can't.'

**Author's Note**: Thanks Elenhin and some of the other author's out there who helped me see my mistake. This poses a problem because I already started the other chapters and forgot about Boromir's little injury which was the whole point this story began. Well I got some revising to do, don't I? Thanks again! Expect Chapter 7 up some time this weekend.


	7. Chapter Seven: Night

Disclaimer: All characters, places, things, hobbits and everything in between belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien

**Chapter 7: Night **

Faramir woke slowly, his mind passing from reality to mind's eye and back again until he opened his eyes to the heavy grey clouds that promised rain. A slight drizzle was drifting through the air and his face had a thin layer of water upon it. He wiped it away with his right hand but only to place the hand back down quickly. He had forgotten about the wound in his shoulder. A grunt passed through his lips and he tired to sit up.

The forest floor was no comfortable place to sleep. His back was covered in dirt, and the muscles were sore from laying in the same position all night. The water made his clothes feel heavier than usually and they chafed his skin whenever he moved. Altogether, he was cold, miserable and tetchy.

Once sitting, he looked around at his surrounding, not being able to see anything the night before in the moonless night. The ominous shadows of the trees he had seen were great brown oaks, with gnarled roots and broken branched, with great thigh thick vines flowing up the trunk like veins on the hand. The only grass in the area was around the trees, thick and soft, and to touch was like the woolen sword scabbard Faramir still had from his father.

'Glad to see you're awake.'

Faramir did not turn around. He still felt some bitterness towards his brother even though he had said he would be fine and deal with what ever punishment the Steward gave to him.

'I know you and father can never agree on something, whether that be strategy, fairness or even what to have to eat, but, brother, why can you not at least try and be open minded.'

_'I cannot believe I am hearing this, from you of all people Boromir. I thought you believed in me.'_

_'I do believe in you. I am trying to tell you your faults because you are too clouded by them to see the truth.'_

_'And what truth would that be, dear brother?'_

_'That our father loves you.'_

Faramir had laughed sardonically at the comment but knew better not too. He was acting like a child, and he knew it. Of course his father loved him, but the way he conveyed it to Faramir made it seem he was trying to say the opposite.

Author's Note: Short chapter here, but hopefully revising the last chapter makes up for it. :) Chapter 8 will be up soon!

Earnestly,

K. Elessar


	8. Chapter Eight: Attacked

**Chapter 8: Attacked**

Boromir and Faramir rode slowly the first day on their journey to the West. They had decided to part near the ending of the Misty Mountains, or near the ruins of Helms Deep, the great fortress of Rohan. Faramir was to ride back to Minas Tirith while Boromir followed his course up north to Rivendell. The two were quiet for the first few hours of riding, musing over the situation of their country. Faramir had told him the night before the reason why he followed his brother, and why he took that risk.

_'We need you, Boromir.'_

_'I know that, brother, but I am on order of our father. I cannot disobey a command'_

_'Even if it lead to the death of our city?'_

_Boromir had paused; clearly, a great struggle was within him. After a few moments, he looked up at his brother, eyes full of agony._

_'That is not fair, Faramir.'_

_'But it may be true.'_

_'That's irrational and ridiculous of you brother. You can do well without me in war, I have seen it before.'_

_'Yet you have always been there to make the final decision. You were the Captain over us all.'_

_'You have grown too dependent on me, Faramir.'_

_'The contrary, brother.__ I have grown too independent. I act on my own vanity and not on common sense. You have seen it.'_

_'Frankly, I have. Yet, and to make this bluntly, brother, you have to work the situation out for yourself. I cannot always be here to help you in your times of need.' He paused. 'And even as painful as this decision is, my loyalty lies to the Steward first and foremost. My own life—my personal life— must come afterwards._

_'Even so…' Faramir paused. What was truly concerning him was the fact that he may never see his brother again. It was not the first time such a situation had happened but each time he dreaded it to be the last._

_'Even so, what?'_

_'I wish you would be with me until the end, until the end of our people.'_

_'That, my dear brother, will never come.'_

'I still don't understand something.' Faramir was drawn away from his thoughts at the sound of his brother's voice.

'And what would that be?'

'Well,' Boromir chuckled slightly. 'Why you still forget to bring an extra shirt during your travels. Because, frankly, valiant captain, you stink.'

Faramir's smiled twitched a little at his name but he stored the small pain in the back of heart. 'Thank you for that compliment, brother. I will try to remember.'

'You'll never win a woman's heart if you wear but one shirt.' He continued, ' I don't think she will be happy with you walking around her, smelling like a pile of orcs.'

'Once again, thank you for your flattery, but I expect that there will not be a woman in my life for a long while.'

'Not even the woman who takes care of the stables?'

'Not even her.'

'Faramir,' Boromir said scathingly. 'You missed your chance.'

'She was engaged. I had no chance.'

'I am sorry to hear that.' Faramir gave his brother a push and rode ahead.

The two stopped the night under the shade of a large cliff. The plains around them were notorious and familiar, yet evil lurked around. Many times while riding, the two could hear shouts and orders being called in the hideous Black Speech. Many times, they stopped and hid and many times groups of orcs crossed their path.

They finally had to settle under this overhang to get some rest. Traveling in the hot sun for hours and hours could be very uncomfortable and draining (especially if one only had one shirt on.) Faramir fed and combed the horses while Boromir light a small fire to warm a small stew up before putting it out.

While combing the horses, Faramir listened for other noises outside of camp. He became aware of the very distant sound of running water. Telling his brother where he was going in case he did not return, Faramir set out in that direction and in only a few seconds came to a small stream following to the South. He came back to camp and got his and his brother's water flasks and went to fill them. The water was cold and brittle to the throat but Faramir welcomed it with relish. Setting down the flasks, he decided, upon his brother's earlier comment, that he would give his shirt a good rinsing. Stained with blood and sweat Faramir wondered why he did not think of cleaning it before. Taking off his belt, and still keeping his sword at hand, he slipped off his chain mail and took off his tunic, making sure he did not irritate his wound. With a slap, he ducked the shirt in the water and after a few moments of intense scrubbing, he squeezed it and headed back to camp.

By then, his brother was sharpening his knife and the fire was put out. His brother looked up at the dripping shirt Faramir was holding and the paleness of his skin.

'You look ill.'

Faramir set his shirt across one of the boulders scattered around the camp and threw his brother's canister to him and stowed his own away before answering.

'I'm just cold.'

'Here, put this on.' Boromir took off his large cloak and handed it to Faramir. Faramir wrapped it around his body very tightly and sat close to the dying coals of the fire.

'Do you want me to light it again?'

Faramir shook his head, 'Did you save me anything, though?'

'Not a drop.'

'How kind of you.'

'Here.' Boromir handed him a bowl of the warm soup and grinned.

While Faramir ate in silence, Boromir continued to sharpen his knife. The chime of metal upon metal filled the air around camp. A cold breeze swept through and carried the sound across the hills to the lands farther South. Faramir tightened his hold on the cloak. Another gust blew through and another sound, more deadly sound than the sword passed through the air.

Boromir swiftly sheathed his knife and walked over to the coals of the fire to scatter them about. Faramir dumped the remains of his meal in between a group of rocks and gathered his pack. The sound got louder and louder as they cleared camp. They ran to their grazing horses and hopped quickly on their backs. The horses, surprised and upset followed their rider's commands and trotted to a cluster of bushes a few yards away from their campsite.

Soon enough, a group of shadowy, ill figured creatures made their way down the slope to their campsite. How they saw the smoke, Boromir did not know, for he was careful not to let it smoke or be very bright.

They had caught their scent.

They yearn for our meat. He thought grimly and sniffed in disgust. The orcs were short and squat, moving around in a random order, picking up rocks and stopping to sniff the air every now and then. Their spider like bodies covered the ground in like black roots of a tree, gnarled and tangled A taller, larger orc with more armor and a seal of the eye across his chest plate shouted orders to the others and they scattered around the former campsite, looking for their prey.

'Should we attack?' Faramir asked, sword in hand. Boromir noticed the hand gripped on the sword was trembling; the knuckles were white and pale. Even though his brother had tried to appear strong and capable today, the wound in his shoulder had pained him greatly. Riding all day long had not helped at all, yet time and haste was needed and Boromir did not think too deeply about his brother's wound. When they escaped these orcs and went further north, he would tend to his brother. For now, his only worry was to get these foul beasts off their trails.

'Wait, Captain.' He paused, scanning the movements of their foes. 'Remember: the best offense if defense. Let us wait and see if they come to us first.'

'Yes, sir.'

They looked at each other for a moment, both understanding that these orcs would not live to see the sunrise.

Suddenly a loud hoot drew their attention and they saw one of the orcs holding up Faramir's still damp shirt in his claw. Faramir groaned at his folly and whispered under his breath, 'That was my only shirt.'

Boromir would have chuckled if the air was not so perilous.

The leader of the pack grabbed the shirt out of the other orcs hand and without hesitation ripped it in half. Faramir mumbled again. This time, though, one of the orcs heard the sound and they called for silence. The orc leader threw the shirt down and called his pack over to the source of the sound. Boromir and Faramir remained dead quiet. The horses, sensing something was wrong did not move or snort in distaste as the orcs advanced.

They came closer and closer, their knives and swords rattling at their sides. The foulness of their breath filled the air, wheezing in and out. Their feet were quiet for stealth was needed. They thought they were going to take their enemy by surprised. Little did they know that anybody traveling in this part of the area would know not to be taken by surprise for the presence of orcs were well known at these times.

Boromir and Faramir glanced at each other and with a nod charged at the group. They cried out, 'For Gondor!' And to match came a cry of rage from the first dead orc. Boromir counted the group, fifteen, sixteen? Enough to overcome an ill trained man but-- being the son's of the Steward--they had to be able to fight better than any man in the land.

Faramir slashed a small orc's throat and within a second, brought the sword into the gut. The orc cried out and died before hitting the ground, black blood pouring on the ashen forest floor. Another came running up from behind him and his horse but did not get a chance to even swing his mace for Boromir came up behind himand thrust his sword into the orc's back. Blood stained the long sword when Boromir pulled it out and he looked at it in disgust before moving on to the rest of the lot.

'Thanks.' Faramir yelled over the clamor, beheading another orc.

'For the salvation of your shirt!' He yelled back.

They worked their way to the captain of the orcs and Boromir did the honors of beheading the foul beast.

**Author's Note:** _It has been quite some time since I last wrote this story. I was getting stuck and then finally gave up. I began to write Morwen the Fair and got caught up with that tale. School is nearing an end and I will have more time to give into the call of the quill and notebook. I hope you all enjoyed this and as always, reviews are so inspiring!_


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